


Memoirs of Flower-Driven Kings

by Drabbleshy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternative Timelines, Baking, Birthday, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Diary/Journal, Evil Dumbledore, Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, Illnesses, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Prophecy, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, Supernatural Illnesses, mention of adoption, tomarry - Freeform, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-24 01:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13202913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drabbleshy/pseuds/Drabbleshy
Summary: A story told by a mysterious stranger, a hidden narrator; they reminisce of events which changed the course of two young boys' lives, the entire world and the destiny of every man and woman upon this Earth. Watch a relationship bloom from a bitter-sweet meeting, roses and dandelions.





	1. A Beginning to a Tale

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I would like to thank my lovely beta readers - TheLastNero and Maurey - for agreeing to deal with my constant overuse of commas, strange style of writing and phrasing things, and the ability to never, absolutely never be serious or on the same page as everybody else.
> 
> Second, you might notice some strange things while you are reading this piece of fanfiction: Dumbledore is middle-aged, the Marauders, Lily and Snape are a bit younger than him, and Tom Marvolo Riddle is only a year or two older than Harry himself, and is a third-year student, while Harry is a first-year. The timelines are all jumbled up, the characters are somewhat different and some characters may not even be exactly who they seem or claim to be. Spooky.

**PROLOGUE**

The screams filled the orphanage’s halls; the blood soaked so deeply into the sheets and tiles that specks of it still remain within them; the terror filled the nearby. The pale woman, barely in the young bloom and blossom of adulthood, looked as though she wouldn’t, couldn’t survive the stormy night. Even though the child had been perfectly healthy, despite its… unusual behaviour which followed its almost normal entrance into this thing we call life, as well as the fact that his mother had had no tears or larger injuries, Merope Riddle had bled much more than she ought to be able to - the nurses haven’t seen that much blood in all the time of their careers. The child, though it had no trouble breathing, had not screamed or made a sound; if spanked or pinched, it would yelp for a few seconds, at most. It had also opened its eyes, staring at its sickly, dying mother with an emotion too complicated for a newborn to feel and too baffling for an adult to explain.

 

With her last wisp of life, she looked at the child with a face of neither happiness nor sorrow, raised a hand, and spoke _“Tom… Marvolo... Riddle,”_ with such heavy breaths and sighs, after which she had promptly died.

 

* * *

 

 

The clouds seemed to gather with great speeds above the United Kingdom, as if wishing to cover every single inch of it with the darkest, heaviest clouds there had been. Their pitch-black, frowning faces looked down upon both the land and sea beneath them, eyeing their victims. Never had in the memory of the living such a storm transpired as the one that had come to grow within those final hours of the rather-sunny year nineteen-twenty-six.

 

Somewhere, between the woods and the hills and the mountains, upon the land which Hogwarts sat upon, a student known as Peter Pettigrew had been in the midst of a conversation with one of his favourite professors, Albus Dumbledore, when he felt a sudden chill enter his mind.

 

“Mister Pettigrew?” Dumbledore inquired, upon seeing the young boy turn stone cold, stone still. Peter hadn’t moved, or responded to his query. Just as Albus opened his mouth to speak once more, the boy turned to him again and stared. Then spoke words that were to remain the most well-kept secret of the wizarding world;

 

“A serpent's heir, of a younger age,  
A family destroyed; a family deranged,   
Left for dead, by an old man's rage,   
Fear the boy, born at the death of the age.   


No matter the tales, no matter the lies,  
How frail they are, how love always dies.   
No matter the love, forever lost,   
The flowers withered, covered in frost.   
  
Fear the head that wears the crown,   
Of dandelions grey and frowned,   
Watch its move, all too bold,   
The head of crowns, of tainted gold.   
  
Fear The Withered King.”

 

Then, a second later, the boy blinked, and continued their conversation, as if nothing had occurred - nothing that would put a pause on the somewhat relevant topic of which they spoke. Professor Dumbledore told him nothing of the secret words spoken, until many, many years later.

 

* * *

 

 

The nurses, not knowing what to do with the strange child, born upon the special night, instead took care of him, enlisting him as an official member of Wool’s Orphanage. The boy grew for many years, in such particular ways that no family had wanted him for such a long time. It wasn’t until he turned eleven years old that a man, nearly forty, by the looks of it, and dressed in funny clothes and cloaks, had stepped inside of the entrance hall and cleared his throat.

 

“Good morning. I am looking for one Tom Marvolo Riddle. Oh,” he paused then spoke again just before the woman at the front desk could speak. “And I would like some tea, no _more_ than two teaspoons of sugar.” He glanced around and, seeing no other members, finally smiled. “You wouldn’t happen to have a Sherbet Lemon, would you?”

 

* * *

 

 

**CHAPTER ONE: A BEGINNING TO A TALE**

 

_Orenda - (n.) a mystical force present in all people that empowers them to effect the world or change their own fate or destiny._

 

 _It began with a flower crown. No, it began with murder. No, no, it began with... oh, my dear, by Merlin’s name, I'm not sure what it began with anymore. Such a long time ago it was, and my memory has_ withered _away. [ They laugh crudely.] Sorry, sorry, I was never as serious as they always depicted me to be. Could I, perhaps, ask for a glass of water?_

 

 _Thank you so m-- I remember now! It began with_ **_him_ ** _-_

 

"HARRY POTTER!" the old female professor called out, and her voice rang through the Hall, bouncing off of the stone walls. The young brown-haired child, first in the ever-decreasing line of innocent eleven-year-olds, hopped up the wooden steps quickly. Anxiety was restless in his chest and stomach, but he had not allowed the feeling to be mirrored upon his face. He nodded politely to professor Merrythought, as a sign of respect, before taking his seat. The Sorting Hat fell awkwardly upon his head, but luckily managed not to cover his eyes. It was good that Harry was of an average height for his age, perhaps even somewhat taller. The boy blamed it on the weekend Quidditch practices his father nearly insisted on, not that Harry was bothered by it at all

 

As the Professor’s self-writing quill crossed of the boy’s name, the Sorting Hat spoke to Harry, much to the boy’s surprise. He expected everybody to perk up at the words, but nobody else seemed to even so much as move when the Hat spoke once more.

 

“Are you listening to me?” it inquired.  
  
Harry was about to speak, when it shushed him. He tried thinking instead. “Y-Yes?”

 

“Well, now, Harry Potter. You have many things written in your future, your past, even in this very moment. You are so much _more_ , and I am not sure where you belong.”

 

“Don’t I belong in this school?”

 

“Yes, but which house, mister Potter?”

 

“My father is a Gryffindor,” Harry recalled.

 

“All young and bright men and women are different, Harry. Your mother had the qualities of all houses, but she seemed content with any one house. She was a muggle-born, yet so understanding.”

 

“Is that rare? A muggle-born? Understanding?”

 

“It’s more possible than you think.”

 

The boy thought about it for a bit and concluded that, like his mother before him, he was quite satisfied with whichever house was assigned to him or, rather, to whichever house he was assigned to. Somehow, at the same time, it was different from his mother’s experience. They were different people, after all. It was over a minute of silence from the boy and the hat, during which time the prior had made several faces of various emotions and expressions indicating very much about absolutely nothing.

 

At last, it had yelled "GRYFFINDOR!", making the boy jump off of the stool. A mix of emotions had been heard throughout the Hall, as per standard. Gryffindors roared, at least half of them rising or jumping to their feet. The Slytherin table occasionally booed, while the remaining houses oft hadn’t reacted, or had simply clapped politely. Unlike the two first houses, some of them deemed, they could actually behave as if they were civilized.

 

Tom Marvolo Riddle, for once, had been acting quite strangely. During the silent, secret conversation the boy and the hat had had, Tom tapped his foot against the floor nervously. He had hoped for one of his own, and he felt that this one would help him achieve what he truly wanted, what he had to do. He felt something more, something he could not possibly understand at the young age of thirteen, no matter how much of a world ruler he wished to be.

 

When he heard that irritable, disgusting name - Gryffindor - he had felt something equally new and strange, yet familiar and well-known. T'was not hate, nor a love lost, but his heart broke nonetheless. He disregarded the feeling best he could at the given time, as he did with all other emotions which would have gotten in the way of him being his dark and victorious self; _suppress, and breath in, then out._ It was _usually_ the most effective technique.

 

As soon as Headmaster Dippet was finished with the welcoming speech, along with all of the announcements that had needed announcing, including:

 

"The Prefect Bath has been moved for the first time in a century, because _somebody-”_ At this, snickers and shushing were heard from the Gryffindor table, “Had managed to find it last year, and slip in a rather inappropriate potion into the bathwater. Once again, the professors of this school would like to apologise for allowing this to occur, and for taking so long to find a spell that has the ability to cure the students that, I am sure, had suffered at least _some_ embarrassment due to colour-changing skin, as well as any animal furs, parts, or limbs where none such should be," at which several people had either laughed or growled insults at.

 

Tom had stood up, deciding to take an early leave, thus skipping dinner, and going straight to bed. He merely raised his hand to stop his _'friends'_ from following, before disappearing through the colossal door. Few had taken notice, yet none had cared. None except for Harry. Harry had followed him through the door at once, his friends, both old and new, staying behind. It had been nearly two minutes by the time Harry had managed to catch up with Tom.

 

"Sorry, are you okay?" he inquired.

 

Tom turned on his heel, the younger boy's voice echoing through the stone corridors. "Excuse me?"

 

"Are you feeling okay?" Harry repeated, slight worry showing on his face. The third-year Slytherin seemed baffled. Who was this child to _dare_ speak to him?

 

"Am I _feeling_ okay? I-I do believe so. Why? Who are you?"

 

"Don’t you want to stay and have dinner? The food all looks so delicious!” the younger Gryffindor retorted with a question and a comment of his own, before, perhaps, realising that introductions were in order. Or maybe Harry just wanted to make friends. Friends needed _names,_ he was sure that this was a rule. “My name is Harry Potter. And yours?” He awaited an answer with a grin.

 

But an answer hadn’t quite arrived as quickly as he hoped. Tom took a sharp breath, confusion surfacing to cover his face, before, after a moment of silence, he grunted, turning back towards the dungeons. He hadn’t taken ten curt, angered stomps before he was looking at Harry again.

 

“Tom Riddle. Tom _Marvolo_ Riddle,” he heard himself say. What was this feeling, so sudden and new? The Gryffindor made the feeling apparate within Tom’s head and chest with such impressive speed - the moment Tom laid his eyes on the boy, he had felt it. Why couldn’t he resist reacting? This was not his breeding, not his pedigree. “Excuse me,” he added sharply, yet, somehow, politely.

 

Harry watched him storm off, now he, himself, baffled. The boy laughed after a moment of complete silence, deciding that he already liked his new _friend._

 

\---

 

The two _friends_ , as Harry would have liked to refer to them, had quite a rough start. Tom considered them _acquaintances_ at best, and Harry a complete and utter nuisance to himself, as well as all of his plans. But the young Slytherin remained perfectly polite in probably every possible way that had ever been. Harry attempted speaking to him time and time again, and, though it _almost_ seemed to be a conversation by some definitions, the younger boy spoke enough for the two of them.

 

 _I am almost certain that he could speak enough for a third member, too, if one had been with us right now,_ Tom found himself thinking at a certain point. He was rushing off to History of Magic, while Harry was off to a Transfiguration lesson. They would soon split, going to their own individual classes, and Tom couldn’t wait. The Slytherin went over the list of his excuses once more, to make certain that he wasn’t being completely repetitive, day after day. Something about one’s grandmother being able to die only once and what-not.

 

“Harry, I apologise for interrupting your story of your younger sister,” _and her incredible passion for the dullest sport ever invented - Quidditch,_ “But I must be off to class. I don’t wish to be late, I hope you do understand.” He left with a curt nod, which Harry imitated, adding an extra, nearly silent _oh_.

 

Tom didn’t know _why_ the boy made him so angry, so hate-filled, and he didn’t wish to know why. He merely wanted for the feeling to be ridden of, as if by magic. After all, this was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _Magic_ was all around. Though, Tom noted to himself with a sudden grim look, it had been years since he had arrived, but he couldn’t shake off the… **_feeling_ ** . That’s what he had called it, the feeling. It had stopped him from going too deep into it, the sensation of his chest suddenly feeling empty, and then more. It felt as if an entire black hole, the size and power of dozens of stars, was implemented where his heart ought to be; it was loneliness beyond any other, and no one thing or person could possibly fill the mentioned void. It would require a miracle, and Tom was sure that such godly acts only happened to the good, which, according to the most who knew the true him, Tom was not. If he attempted socialising with anybody, or distracting himself, _it_ would only become worse. It was a baffling concept - it burned his chest and throat and soul and he would gladly pay a million galleons to make it stop.

 

He shook his head, internally yelling at himself and his mind for thinking of it once more. He mentally shouted the feeling away, instead concentrating on the lesson that he had just stepped into. _Everything is perfect_ , he encouraged himself. Everything was _not_ perfect, ever again.

 

\---

 

By the end of November, beginning of December, Tom and Harry had begun speaking, conversing - in the true sense of either word. Harry still made up _most_ of the conversation, but it meant that the other had learned more of Harry than Harry had learned of him. This arrangement was alright with him, for Tom didn’t share his past with many - or _any_ , really.

 

“So, your father is a bit of a fanatic, then?” Tom asked during one of their walks through the gardens of Hogwarts. He looked amused, even, at their discussion of Harry’s history.

 

“Yeah, he _adores_ Quidditch. He was even an _amazing_ player while he was here at school,” Harry responded, hand motions of _awesomeness_ included. He seemed excited to speak of these matters, Tom noted.

 

“I’m not much of a Quidditch fan, myself. Just never took an interest in it for one reason or the other. But I’ve heard of your last name before, _Potter._ ” He let the name slip from his lips slowly. It gave him a mental quiver of sorts - one that Harry could not notice, fortunately for the Slytherin. “You’re from an old _pureblood_ family, right? What?”

 

“ _I_ don’t know if I like that word, Tom.”

 

“Family?”

 

A pause.

 

“Pureblood.”

 

“Why would you not like the word?”

 

“Why would I not like the word family?”

 

“I apologise,” Tom stated after a moment of consideration. “I might have been spending far too much time with some less understanding and open families.”

 

Harry replied with a smile. “It’s okay. My mum is a muggle-born, but, yes, my father comes from a long line of wizards and witches. I don’t quite remember my grandparents, but I saw their pictures, so I think that sometimes I _do_ remember a bit of them.” It was confusing. “They died of Dragon Pox, a year before I was born. Both of them.”

 

The two boys frowned at the topic, due to which an awkward silence ensued. Tom was about to begin a new conversation, something much lighter, much safer - the cliche likes of ‘ _what’s your favourite class so far?’_. Harry had a better idea.

 

“I can’t wait to see them, Tom! I can’t wait to go home, and see my mum, father, and sister. We’re leaving in only a few days, aren’t you excited?”

 

And, _oh dear._

 

“Who are you staying with for Christmas? You’re going to go and see your family soon, right?”

 

Another pause. Colour drained from Tom’s cheeks, shivers ran down and up and left and right, shaking up his body down to the bones. _Creaking beds rust, closets open, close, mocking laughter, children shouting -- “Don’t let them see you cry, Tom, don’t let them see you c--” Pain simmering, sliding from his head to his eyes, mouth, chest, heart. It spreads through him like poison, blood, air, water. Drowning, dying, falling, darkness painting his ey--_

 

“...”

 

**“T-Tom?”**

 

* * *

 

“You musn’t worry, Harry,” Professor Dumbledore spoke. “Tom has a certain condition which often acts up in many ways,” he spoke vaguely of it. Worry became apparent upon his face, in smaller doses.

 

“He’s going to be alright then, Professor?” the boy inquired, huge puppy eyes staring up at Dumbledore.

 

“Of course, of course, my dear boy.” The middle-aged man looked out of the window, idly rubbing his hands together, a large portion of the Hogwarts grounds visible from the hallway near the Medical Wing. “But you must be on your way soon, Harry.”

 

“Already?” the boy asked in a longing voice. He wished to stay, even if he wasn’t allowed to be by Tom’s side. He had managed to acquire a rose from the Herbology professor, and had given it to the main Healer, who had promised to lay it by the patient’s side.

 

“It is too late to stay this year, Harry. Perhaps another, no?” Dumbledore’s voice was much reassuring to Harry, as it was to most others. The man had a talent for relaxing people, making them feel better. Rumours spread amongst students for years now, of how the Professor was only so good at it due to his impeccable skills in the fields of wandless magic, or perhaps due to some tragedy in his past involving potions, and magical artifacts. Harry didn’t whom to trust.

 

“Yes, Professor,” Harry admitted defeat curtly.

 

“Headmaster Dippet will send a letter via owl, when Tom has awakened.”

 

“Thank you, sir.” He had turned to leave, nearly at the door when Dumbledore spoke up once more.

 

“Oh, and Harry?”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“I would like you to think about what being friends with Tom means, during the holidays. He is a very dangerous boy, Harry, as are those who he chooses to befriend. Those people, their house is--”

 

“That’s where you are!” cut in another professor. She, professor Wontwood of Charms, gave a disapproving look to both Harry, and Dumbledore, despite being half a decade younger, or perhaps even more, than the latter. “Come on now, Harry. The train is being boarded as we speak! Your luggage better be there already!”

 

She motioned him over, and he followed suit, as she entered through the wooden door and disappeared into the castle. Just before the boy was out of sight, Dumbledore nearly shouted: “Do not forget what I have told you, Harry!”

 

The door closed, the boy’s confusion remaining with him behind it. Dumbledore _tsked,_ unsure of what would occur next. He would have to speak to Tom about this, as well, once the Slytherin was awake once more. The professor sometimes hoped that it wouldn’t come to that.


	2. T'is The Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tom discovers beauty, Harry discovers a secret and Dumbledore discovers that making fun of his evil-minded students is just too fun.
> 
> '"T'is red, isn't it?"'
> 
> 'Insufferable git.'
> 
> '“A Harry?”'
> 
> '“Oh. Sev, I--”'
> 
> '"D-Du-Dumbledore.”'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all your comments the last time! <3

**CHAPTER TWO: T'IS THE SEASON**

 

_Kaiho - (n.) a hopeless longing - an involuntary solitude in which one feels incompleteness and yearns for something unattainable or extremely difficult and tedious to attain. _

 

 _Thank you for the food, you are_ so _generous, you are. [They wipe their lips of the traces of their meal with a napkin so kindly provided.] So, you see, my dear, the disease was so peculiar, so rare, that only a few knew anything about it, and even fewer knew of the fact that, that-- this child had been plagued by it. [They frown, recalling things so vicious, so crude.] Only one living man knew of the terrible, terrible future that the affliction could lead to, one day. That it_ would _lead to, one day. Let me explain myself, poppet-_

 

The world is black and white, and grey. Or, rather, it had always been such for one Tom Marvolo Riddle. He understood that colours were a thing people saw - he learnt that at a young age - but the _blue_ cover which he used at the Orphanage had been a somewhat light grey. The _crimson_ blood of humans and animals alike - a part of which he had caused to appear, and with such delight - had been only a darker grey than the one before. It was, needless to say, that one grew very weary of such sights quickly.

 

Tom taught himself how to smoothly pass over these bumps, often staying away from topics involving anything that may have been related to colours. It was hard to discern the colours, even if the shades of grey were vastly different from each other - it was all too confusing. Fortunately, he managed to avoid exposing himself and this _weakness._

 

During his unconscious stay at the Medical Wing, Tom had occasionally heard faint traces of familiar voices, but dreams - _dreams or visions_ \- had oft interrupted even reality. He saw dark surrounding him, wherever he turned…

 

_A scene appears, an endless sea of grass, a nearly cloudless sky above. A light, cool breeze skims over the tall grass, and into Tom’s face. He seems to stand on a small hill, an uprising, covered with short grass and the occasional root of the nearby tree, on which he now leans against. Sliding down against the bark, he breathes heavily, feeling dizzy and nauseated. His eyes look around, pausing as he spots it. The world goes dark._

 

“He will see your rose, and I will ask him of it. Good _bye_ , mister Potter,” he finally heard a _clear_ female voice speak; usually, the voices would disappear and appear mid-sentence, but this one finally felt stable. “That child will _seriously_ be the death of me, he will.”

 

Tom cracked an eye open, finding it very hard to wake from the heavy slumber that had possessed him. He shuffled in the bed, which creaked under the weight, attempting to rouse himself from sleep at least a bit. Thus, he turned onto his right side, where he found a grey, wooden night table, a bouquet of vast grey wild flowers, and a grey tissue box, as well as a lustrous crimson rose. It took Tom several seconds to register what his eyes had just witnessed.

 

A flamboyantly. Crimson. Rose. Right there, upon the table. The sensation of seeing it had been shocking, baffling, even galvanizing. He nearly fell off of his bed. In fact, he _had_ fallen off of his bed.

 

“Tom?” a voice called. “Mister Riddle, is that you?” The boy had barely managed to climb back onto the bed, into a sitting position, before the nurse had peeked her head between the hospital curtains, which were meant to give privacy to the patient.

 

“Oh, yes, madam. I had just,” here he paused, unsure of his next words. “Woken from a terrible nightmare.”

 

“Are you certain of that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But, I was so sure that I’ve given you a Dreamless Sleep pot--”

 

“I assure you that it was a nightmare,” he interrupted her, allowing anger to seep into his tone of voice. Then, upon seeing the Healer’s shocked and startled face, his features softened. “I apologise, I was--”

 

“Frightened, yes, yes. Quite all right, but do _not_ do it again, young man, or I’m afraid that I will be forced to tell the Headmaster.” He nodded. “Right. Rest, Riddle, rest.”

 

She was nearly out again before he called upon her; “Sorry, Miss-” his voice trailed off here.

 

“Missu _s_ Wormwood.”

 

“Missus Wormwood,” he repeated after her. “Right. Could you, perhaps, tell me,” he began his inquiry, glancing at the scarlet rose. “What colour this rose is?”

 

She gave him an odd look, but answered nonetheless. “T’is red, isn’t it?”

 

“Could you be more precise, please?”

 

“Well, um. I’m not quite sure? Scarlet, crimson, vermillion? I’m not quite the best with colours, Mister Riddle.” _That makes two of us_ , he thought. “What do you think of it?”

 

Neither Tom nor Helen, for that had been Missus Wormwood’s first name, had shown any sign of fear upon their faces, and their flattering features, but the feeling itself had crawled into the backs of their minds, and into their very bones. But for such different reasons.

 

“I’m not very well versed in them either, missus. But, it _is_ beautiful,” Tom said eventually, wittingly saving both of them of the awkward and painful moment which had been upon them for what seemed to be centuries, when it was not even a minute long.

 

“Quite so,” she retorted, and left hastily. Tom didn’t bother her again.

 

* * *

 

The Slytherin had been released from his bed two days later, upon the twentieth of December, of the year nineteen-forty. He had fallen three or four days before, but he could not quite remember; the memory of it was too fuzzy. He wished to be rid of that terrible question anyway, and this, along with the fact that the rose had already withered away, had made it so much easier.

 

The shock of his newfound ability to see the many, perhaps _wonderful,_ shades of red had not quite worn off yet, but Tom was beginning to feel alright with this. He was pondering the circumstance within the privacy of his own mind, walking through the corridors, and towards the Great Hall, as was his stomach’s demand. _It’s not as if they hang around enormous red banners everywhe--_ It took him no more than three seconds to realise that he was absolutely mistaken. The Gryffindor banners! How could have he forgotten? They were red. They were not just red, because they were, in fact, more than red. They were crimson. The one shade which, for some obscure reason, seemed to be present _everywhere_ and _anywhere_ you looked.

 

He pondered whether or not this was a curse, whether he was going mental, or if he had merely been a victim of a prank. These questions, inquiries, suspicions raged within his head as he approached the one large table that was left in the centre of the room. It was a usual thing to see, not just because of the lack of other tables, but also because of how few students there were present. Because of this, the table was oriented horizontally, facing the walls of the Hall, rather than vertically, facing the gigantic door on one end, and the table at which the Headmaster and Professors sat on the other. It was so queer, particularly due to the fact that it had been positioned in the _middle_ of the room. Perfectly so.

 

 _Merlin, could this day become any worse?_ he inquired the long-gone wizard, the gods above and below or, perhaps, nobody. Luckily, it didn’t. He had sat down alone, with nobody who wished to interact with him, except for those who stared. The boy was young, thirteen - nearly fourteen - years old, yet so feared already. At least, by the students who were smart enough to understand who he was, or would be, one day. They knew that he would be somebody important, even monumental one day. The Minister of Magic even?

 

The staring hadn’t bothered him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Staring was fun. Some looked away quickly, attempting to finish their meal curtly, before nearly running out of the room, while others pretended not to exist, taking petite bites every so often, spooking themselves whenever they made a noise. The ones who continued staring were either brave, or stupid. Or a Gryffindor. _Not that it makes much difference,_ Tom held back a smirk. _They could not tell the difference between their bottoms and their heads, even if their lives depended on it!_

 

While that small fact could keep him, and his mind, occupied during brunch, for that was the typical time Hogwarts students who had remained for vacation had pulled themselves out of bed, it could not keep him entertained, and away from other worries forever.

  
And worries had mysterious, yet obvious ways of showing themselves in the physical world.

 

“Ah,” said Professor Dumbledore with false glee. “Tom, you seem to be doing much better than the last time I laid my old eyes upon you!”

 

 _Old? You are barely forty,_ was left unsaid by Tom, along with some insults, of more serious and inappropriate natures. “I am, Professor. I was just finishing lunch.”

 

“Yes, I do imagine that the Hospital Wing, and its Healer, is far too careful about the food they give you. It is so tasteless! I much prefer Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Jelly Beans,” he admitted, in a more of a sing-song tone towards the end, which would have sounded like a radio advertisement to a muggle, had a muggle been around to hear it. It was maddening, how much this man could be deceiving in how leisurely he felt in the given moment. “Would you like one?” The Professor pulled out an entire jar of said candy, though half of its contents been eaten, presumably. “I would be careful, this one appears to have more vomit than usual.”

 

About three students had dropped their cutlery and left, as those words were spoken. With them, left half of his entertainment.

 

“No thank you, Professor.” _Insufferable git._ “I’m full.”

 

“Good choice, Tom. Now, let us go for a walk.”

 

The boy rose obediently, his plate vanishing off of the table, just as he disappeared into the empty of the halls of the school once more, but with a Professor this time.

 

“Oh, _Tom_ ,” Dumbledore finally said after moments of silence. ”Your birthday approaches awfully fast, don’t you think?”

 

Tom nearly thanked him for the stabbing feeling in his chest at the mention of… this matter. The Professor knew full-well that Tom would be hurt by these words, the boy was aware. Had he less control of himself, he would have returned the feeling to Dumbledore, with an actual, physical knife.

 

“Q-Quite so.”

 

The man smiled at the boy, the hint of mischievousness hidden within his lips. “Quite so, _sir._ ”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Are you sure you can handle it without that- oh, what was his name?” A painful pause. “Harry Potter, perhaps?” Dumbledore nodded his head, not waiting for a reply. “He _is_ your new toy now, yes?”

 

“Excuse me?” A pause. “Sir?”

 

“I’m just saying, Tom, You are not the one to have friends - people for whom you care. Perhaps you should stay away from him, Tom.” A knowing look was directed at the boy.

 

“And why is that?”

 

“Sir.”  


“Sir,” Tom repeated, rage and worry nearly breaking through the facade that was his face.

 

Rising once more, Dumbledore looked around at the other students and leaned in. “It is not as if he would be the first person to have gotten _hurt_ because of you, Tom.”

 

“Is that a bloody threat, old man?”

 

Dumbledore laughed at this so honestly that Tom had thought of him as insane. “A threat? You are as humorous as they say you are, Tom. I need not do anything to hurt either of you. You are so very good at doing that yourself. I just have to sit back and watch you _wither_ away. _As has been foretold,”_ he teased with promises and hints of new, unknown information.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, we didn’t need to do much about your mother, now did we? Now, excuse me, I have a meeting with the Headmaster.”

 

Tom had just begun yelling, cursing at the man, but the Professor was gone, within the blink of an eye.

 

 _“Oh, fuck off!”_ he yelled one last time, before running away from this hollow place.

 

* * *

 

After such a heated moment, Tom had realised that he was, in fact, quite baffled by the Professor’s behaviour, both now and previously. The older man’s behaviour had always been quite queer, not just to Tom, but also to most wizards and witches who had been (un)fortunate enough to have encountered him in the past.

 

To add onto the ever-growing list of reasons to be glum this time of year, Tom had made the mistake of leaving his room during Christmas. It had fled his mind that yesterday had been Christmas Eve, and he had avoided the surprising amount of people that decided to dine together upon this horrid day with great hardship. Hence he had forgotten about Christmas, as well.

 

He hadn’t done much upon that day, except for occasionally entering the Hall, in order to eat a meal, which had been sweeter than on any other day. Perhaps that was some sort of a benefit, Tom pondered, for rare were those who didn’t enjoy a good sweet. He would have to make a note of keeping the candy-makers of the Wizarding World, once said group was his own.

 

Though his day had been largely uninteresting and slow, filled with a few study sessions at the Library, and a few walks through empty, cold, stone halls, one thing that was more than worthy of being mentioned was the moment in which he had walked into the bedroom which he shared with four other boys.

 

As the door shut behind him, Tom stopped where he stood, and stared at his bed. Or, rather, at the curtains of his bed, for the green fabric covered any view of it.  It took a surprising amount of effort to lift his foot off of the floor, and even more to pull his wand out and keep going. A pang of physical pain passed through his chest as the floor creaked beneath him once, twice, but he quickly skipped over the third spot, for he had remembered it well by now, and, reaching the curtains, he grabbed a fistful of the elegant, soft fabric, and pulled it back quickly.

 

He was lucky that it did not tear at such a curt and sudden move, and he was even luckier to have not fired off some curse which might have destroyed his sheets and mattress, for he was prepared to do so, if there had, perhaps, been an enemy hidden within. But no living thing was there. Instead, a journal, elegant and brown the hard covers, had lain in the middle of the bed, unmoving, unstirring, and, certainly, unnerving to the young boy.

 

He picked it up, carefully, dropping his wand onto the wooden nightstand. A small note had been tucked between the pages and had been sticking out, immediately getting the Slytherin’s attention. He pulled it out slowly and carefully and read the dry, red ink upon it:

 

_“Write who you are,_

_Wear your crown._

_You’ll get far,_

_Where she can drown.”_

 

Riddled with the contents, he slipped the note back between its pages and placed the whole thing onto his night stand before changing his mind, taking off his top robes, and picking the journal up once more. Its pages were empty, and it had caused a stir of emotions within Tom’s head, for no seemingly plain or logical reason whatsoever. Finding himself unable to push aside the feelings and resist the urge to fill the vast empty pages, he sat himself upon his bed and wrote. He wrote of himself, his name, his plans, his past and his future, as well as the present hardships which he deals with in Hogwarts.

 

He wrote for hours.

 

* * *

 

_Though a sudden twist in our plot, such a sudden change, my dear, this is a vital part of the story. It may seem to be useless, but it is good to see the difference between one’s dark, uneventful and the other’s flamboyant and fun days and months._

 

The Christmas period in the Potter household had hardly been manageable, and even less so neat and orderly. A day before the guests had arrived, Lily and Harry had begun their work. Though both being fully capable of using and manipulating magic, Lily taught her son to enjoy the work that one could perform in the kitchen and to relax through it, too. Harry especially enjoyed kneading bread due to this; rolling, squishing and playing around with the dough had been quite entertaining. The cooking-slash-baking duo had left such doughs overnight, to have them baked _quite_ early in the morning.

 

One particular morning, when Harry had been a mere six-years-old, Lily woke up to place the bread, and other such pastries, into the oven, on her own. She didn’t wish to wake the child, but her son had crept into the room quite quickly, upon hearing noise from the kitchen.

 

Rubbing at an eye, and clutching a stuffed stuffed Snitch doll closely to his small body, Harry started at her. “Mum?”

 

“Oh, hi, hi, hello!” She had nearly jumped at the sound of the boy’s voice.

 

“What are you doing?” he inquired, and she nearly awed at the cuteness. Then again, she was up quite early despite the fact that she and her husband had been free of work for two entire weeks, so cuteness wasn’t the only thought which floated within her head.

 

“I’m just poppin’ the dough we made into the oven, poppet, so it can be fresh for the guests.” She hadn’t bothered dressing, despite the fact that that was what she had been taught to do. James taught her how to relax a bit, which, despite first impressions, wasn’t so bad. If she had been like her sister, for instance, she would already have been dressed, if she were up at all, and mentally preparing all of the fake small talk and the fake compliments which would be needed within the following twenty-four hours, all for their guests, which they had so _kindly_ invited. Not to mention the fact that she would be obese due to the wrong diets, unnatural habits, and terrible choices from beforehand.

 

“B-but, but… it’s _our_ dough!”

 

She shushed him lightly. “Your father is still sleeping. And, yes, it _is_ our dough. So?”

 

“So we, we should pop it together!” The child did not lower his voice of tone at all. He was upset, and if he had to awaken the entire town, so be it.

 

“I just didn’t want you to wake up, Harry. Now you’ll be tired when your uncles Remy and Padfoot come today,” she explained, at which he merely shook his head.

 

“No!”

 

“No to the quiet?” inquired James, who, woken up, too, by the noise from the kitchen, was now standing at the doorway. He needed a shave, wore a shirt with Quidditch decorations on it, and boxers.

 

“Dad!” Harry rose his hands, demanding to be raised, which, at the age of six, was painful for whoever was picking him up. James complied anyways. They shared a hug, while James also smiled at Lily, who approached to peck him on the lips.

 

“Well, good morning to you two.”

 

“Good morn-!” Harry begun, but Lily interrupted him.

 

“Nope. _We_ , all three of us, are going back to bed after Harry and I are done baking.” The words caused Harry to nearly jump out of his father’s arms, and run for the dough that was left.

 

“But,” James was about to complain.

 

“If I leave you two alone, you’ll both end up passing out by lunch. And you’ll be too loud for _me_ to sleep.”

 

After a moment of silence, he smiled. “Cast Muffliato?”

 

“Come on. Before your  son burns something.”

 

“You mean _your_ son!”

 

* * *

 

The tradition of early risings, followed by baking, and, eventually, family naps that lasted until nearly midday, had survived many a number of years. The Christmas of 1940, when Harry Potter  was eleven, and in his first year of his magical education, was quite an eventful one. As the Potters were doing final checks, all concerning the dining table, the living room, and the food, two rather dashing gentlemen were about to leave their shared home.

 

 _“Padfoot!”_ the light-haired man called.

 

Another man, of long dark hair, uncombed, yet luckily clean, popped his head out from the bathroom and mumbled, for there was a toothbrush in his mouth.

 

“Merlin, you’re not even dressed,” Remus observed, for, in fact, Sirius had _no_ clothes on, from the looks of it. The tinge of red upon the prior’s cheeks was _not_ a flush, mind you.

 

Sirius took out the toothbrush, _swallowed_ the toothpaste, and grinned mischievously. “Just the way you like it, my d--” he retorted, but cut himself off, quickly ducking into the bathroom, as a pillow _and_ clothes were thrown at him. Remus called it his daily multitasking exercises, Sirius called it childish, but took it back moments later, when he was given _The Look._

 

“I swear, I’m living with an animal.”

 

“‘Heard that, ya wolf!”

 

Remus flushed yet once more, or, should one say, did _not_ flush again, at the comment, for this was more than a nickname, or a joke. It was actually quite romantic, _and teasing,_ in ways that only the two of them knew. It brought joy and warmth to both their hearts, though they would rarely admit.

 

The other man stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a elegant, black suit, which was unusually attractive on him, since Remus could only get him into one twice to thrice a year; Sirius would deny it with a passion never before seen by Remus, but he actually enjoyed being dressed in such clothes. James and Lily had actually gotten him into such muggle outfits, individually. This had, of course, occurred during their school years, while Lily disliked James, and James denied that he was slowly falling in love with Lily, but they had the same thoughts. In fact, at one point, Lily may have had held affectionate feelings for Sirius, and thus he arranged the meeting of the two souls. A date that went wonderfully, and took only three years to organise and put into action.

 

There was also the fact that Remus loved when Sirius was in a suit, as well, and had often showed it in most interesting and creative ways. This was the reason that they were _always_ late, and that Sirius always put on his suit twice in the morning.

 

“You look,” Remus began, “Exquisite.”

 

“Why thank you,” Sirius replied, drawing closer until he was close enough to press a hand against the somewhat shorter man’s cheek. “You look quite good yourself, love.” A kiss was shared between them in that moment, and all anxious feelings, all the worries of their worlds had vanished with such ease.

 

* * *

 

The couple was late, naturally. Instead, the first to arrive had been Severus Snape, who was greeted warmly by both Lily and James Potter, and their youngest child, Euphemia Potter. The little girl had merely been four at the time, her speech still a bit unclear, for she refused to let go of old habits, when it came to speaking. Otherwise, she was a delightful child, in some manner or form, depending on whom you asked; she dressed in light colours, including the bright pinks, yet she could kick a soccer ball with as much precision as an eight-year-old could gather. She liked drawing, painting, and being neat, but you would also find her falling off of her broom and into the mud and dirt, only to get back up with no cries or complaints, and keep chasing her father and brother. And, as all those who had been around children before, her terrible twos were definitely sticking around until the terrible fives.

 

But, nevertheless, she was a loved child by many, very much including her own parents. _And Severus._ Yes, the same Severus Snape that had, for years, been bullied by the Marauders, and nearly killed by a few of them. One would imagine that that man would have cursed them all away by now, or never have spoken nor seen them again. But Lily prevented that; their friendship grew and grew through the years of their schooling, and, on November of the same year when there formal education had been completed, she invited him to coffee, in a muggle shop; she hadn’t worried that the man may cause distraction with his robes, for she, after years of trying, got him into some muggle clothing. A pattern in her youth, really, with many of her friends.

 

“So, you’ve become the Professor of Potions class then?” she inquired, to which he nodded and grinned, quite proud of himself. “You were talking about applying for years, and, oh, I’m just so happy for you!”

 

“Thank you,” he said simply, in a somewhat questioning tone. Other people would have minded the way he responded and spoke to people, but Lily had grown used to it, the occasional smiles and murmurs telling her far more than a thousands regular words ever could.

 

“We should be celebrating!” She paused to ponder. “Why don’t you join us for Christmas dinner this year, Sev?”

 

“Us?”

 

“The Potters, and some of my other friends!” She noted one of his looks as a sign for her to, perhaps, be just a bit quieter. She apologised with yet another glance.

 

“These friends,” he began, “They’re James’ friends?”

 

“Well, some of them, yes.” He was about to speak back, that look of near-hate upon his face, already enveloping it. “Severus,” she simply warned.

 

“Well, they are!”

 

“They are,” she confirmed the unspoken features of theirs, “But they can be nice, too. They’re just different, like you. Well, a different different from you. You just have to get to know them.”

 

Severus took more than a moment to consider her words, and they both enjoyed their coffees in silence. The former Slytherin considered purchasing as much as he could carry, for he had, after coming here several times beforehand, found a brand and type of coffee which he liked. He decided against it when Lily informed him that she’d teach him how to make it, _if_ he came to the dinner. He eventually agreed, much to the other’s happiness, especially since she could both imagine and, later on, vitness, the shock on her husband’s face.

 

* * *

 

“You what?” James stared at her with an open mouth. Lily deemed the face priceless, and couldn’t stop laughing at it, no matter what she did. “Are you fucking--?”

 

“James Fleamont Potter!” A moment of silence, which felt as though it could and would go on forever, left the male feeling as if though he had been five years old once more, and was indeed being reprimanded by his very own mother. Finally, she said “Language.”

 

"What?"

 

"James, darling, listen to me. Severus has been a good, no, a great friend, in every way, during our years at Hogwarts. You must remember that this is true, despite the fact that you, yourself, and the rest of our friends, had been unfair and impolite to him."

 

"B-But, Snivelus is--"

 

"Gods!" she yelled, cutting his thoughts off at that word. Her wand apperated within her hands within seconds, pointed at her dear husband. "Do you even know how to behave yourself? Do you know his name? Do you even care about anybody else, about me?" Her voice strained at the last fragment of her sentence, irritation and hidden worries emerging. She turned away at once, wiping tears from her eyes. "God-damn men. All of you - stupid!"

 

He smiled lightly at her murmured words, though the ones spoken beforehand had lowered his spirits as well. He hugged from the behind, placing his cheek against her head. "I'm sorry," he began, though knowing that such a word had little impact without any others, or without a reasonable, valid explanation. Though Lily had been a person of emotions, she had also been one of logic, morals, and standards, and the young woman had been quite smart, outside of classes, too. James had found that such attributes had made him love her, but they were hardly the only ones.

 

"Sni-- Severus. Severus had only been a victim of our crimes for such a long time that I had rarely stopped to think of himself as a person, as somebody who could feel. I knew that we had gone overboard after what happened at the Shrieking Shack, but I didn’t have the chance to redeem myself. The time just never seemed..."

 

"Right," she spoke for him, turning in the hug, so that she, too, could wrap her around his figure. "Be gentle with him," she advised, "But take your time, poppet."

 

"I shall."

 

* * *

 

The first year had been difficult for all, but, over the many Christmas days, with occasional lunches during other muggle and wizarding holidays, the relationship between Snape and the Marauders had grown into something positive, affectionate. The man's relationship with Harry had been quite positive indeed, for the boy regarded him as family soon enough. Snape taught him many things, and the boy taught him how to appreciate different things as well, including Quidditch. (A side note, but not really a side note: The Potters, especially Lily, had loved The Appearing Spirit Day, simply known as the Spirit Day, and had celebrated it often; this was a day that, long ago, by Native American wizards and witches, had celebrated the Animagi; this had not been too popular amongst the wizards in the day, for Animagi were still a taboo thing of a sorts in 1940s.)

 

Severus Snape had eventually caught wind of the relationship between Sirius and Remus, which wasn't too difficult to do, unless you were a rather innocent child. He hadn’t exactly spread the news, instead consulting with Lily several hours later, and learning then that the couple had already made everybody quite well aware of their doings. Sirius had even done so in detail that nobody had to know, and that few actually enjoyed. Amongst the few had been James, who had gone absolutely scarlet at one of Sirius’ comments:

 

“We had been together, basically, since the fourth year of our education at Hogwarts school, but we had not made it public to any _one_ person or ghost the nature of our relationship until our sixth year,” explained Remus, half grateful that little Harry had been safe asleep in his bed, with a Muffliato spell cast upon his door and room.

 

“As one of you already knows,” Sirius added, with a wink to James. The blush had caused _all_ of the attention in the room to be directed at James, forcing him to mentally swear to, at a later date, kill Sirius and hide his body. Remus gave him a sympathetic look, for he, too, would help him to do so. At a later date.

 

Lily, on the other hand, hadn’t reacted much, accept for a sly smile that appeared upon her face for a mere second or two, before she hid it away once more. Their sex life, to say in the least, become much more interesting than before.

 

As for other particular guests that had attended the Potter household during the many years, there had also been Peter Pettegrew. Although he had been present in the very beginning of Harry's life, he had not stayed too long within, and the choice to leave was not his own. Last time Harry Potter saw Peter had been on the evening of July 31st of 1933, the day upon which Harry had turned four-years-old.

 

The incident had scarcely been spoken of since, for it was a subject of pain and more uncomfortable feelings, and it had not seemed likely that Peter would ever return; his mind corrupted, driven crazy, it was decided that he was to be kept inside a wizarding mental institution, until he had shown signs of improvement. Yet Peter had never improved, instead growing more fierce and delusional, mumbling and yelling of his Master, who was yet to come, and conquer the world. Though little was understood of his craze-driven words, he had always mentioned one recurring theme: 'flowers.'

 

The events that had come to pass upon the aforementioned birthday had broken several laws and regulations of the wizarding world, too. The fact which was mentioned time and time again within the reports of the MOM agents, which focused on this incident, mentioned that the man appeared to be intoxicated due to a large amount of Firewhiskey, which had been nothing unusual, seeing as he had been a most regular attendant of the local pubs. It was also repeatedly written that Peter had been known to lose his true self in public, babbling of strange matters.

 

It was lucky that Harry had rarely recalled that day, for when Harry frowned, it had been a sad moment for all those who cared for him, or even those who had just had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. The boy almost never frowned, which made the occasional look of unhappiness upon his face all the more tragic, and noxious.

 

* * *

 

Luckily, the boy had had very little reason to cry or be saddened. One event in which he would not partake in such lame emotions had been that in which he had discovered that his uncles were a bit more than roommates. Incidentally, during the winter break of his first year at Hogwarts, he had been walking the hallways of the Potter residence, lost deep within his thoughts of Tom and his condition; he had received a letter from Headmaster Dippet, of how Riddle's condition had improved, but it worried him still.

 

He had been awoken from the corner of his mind with the sounds of spoken words, and somebody shushing his conversational fellow. They seemed to have come from one of the guest bedrooms and, thus, Harry leaned in, against the door.

 

“-been thinking, Sirius.” It was Remus’ voice. Harry was somewhat shocked, for the duo never used each other’s true names in front of Harry _._

 

“About what, dear?”

 

“How do you feel about kids?” Remus already knew the answer, but he was taking this conversation step by step.

 

“Kids? Young goats?”

 

A silence, during which Sirius had received a look.

 

“Ah, children! I mean, you know that I like children. I _love_ Harry.”

 

“Yes, yes, I know.” A pause, a sigh. “How would you feel if we attempted adopting one, perhaps?”

 

“A Harry?”

 

“A child.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Yet another moment of silence passed, too long for Harry’s liking. He turned the knob slowly, cracking the door open, and peering in. Sirius had now been sitting on the bed.

 

“It’s quite alright if you don’t wan--”

 

“How?” the black-haired man inquired.  


“What?”

 

“How would we go about getting one - a child?”

 

“I mean, certain wizard children _are_ orphans. So are some muggle-borns, too.”

 

“But, how? There is no program for people… like us.”

 

“We _do_ know a few people.”

 

“Yes, that would be splendid. All of it.” Sirius leaned over, pulling Remus over onto the bed, before he pushed him down with a hand and a kiss. In the process, the man on the top had spotted Harry and turned a scarlet hue. The lying man failed to notice, his shirt already half untucked and a hand already have dived under it, and his arms over his head.

 

“Are you alright?” asked Remus, after a moment, finally. “What could you possibly--”

 

Here, the man rose and turned to look at a doorway. Awkward silence fell, before the bright-haired man spoke again:

 

“Now, Harry, plea--”

 

Before more could be spoken, Harry had already been on top of them, hugs administered, all of their longings, urges, and worries put aside for the evening. The young boy had been buzzing with questions, most of which were answered. Some were left for the parents to answer, since they seemed to be the more appropriate teachers, on those topics.

 

* * *

 

During one of the later years of the Potter Christmas gatherings, Snape had pulled Lily aside to the very same room in which Harry had learned of his uncles and the very nature of their relationship. The latter event was the one to occur posterior to the former, but they had both been of equal importance, in their own ways.

 

“Lily.” Snape stood in front of her, his eyes focused on hers with intent and bravery.

 

“Yes?”

 

“We have known each other for a long time now. We have even grown into who we are together, for many years.”

 

“Yes,” she confirmed with a nod of her head.

 

“You must know that I had held strong affections towards you.”

 

“Oh. Sev, I--” she began, but he cut her off, determined to be heard.

 

“No. Not yet. I _held_ love for you. Romanticly. But this was years ago, while we had still been children. I am no longer mad at that--” he cut himself off, now, too, as to not offend anyone. “At James. My years of love, affection, my years with you-” he had been practicing this for years- “They had grown into something much more important. Love of siblings.”

 

She stood silent, for the moment.

 

“What?” he inquired, uncertain, as he tilted his head, before he thought of the worst; for the worst always came at stressful moments -- terrifying confessions and frightful events. “Did I say something wrong? I knew it, I always say something wr--”

 

“No. Nothing wrong. _You,_ you were honest and forward and, well, you’re were never _this_ good at being either. I am so very proud of you, Snee.” She laid a gentle, affectionate hand upon his cheek and the man embraced the warmth, holding it close. It was a ritual, one that reminded them of the memory of the brief, nearly romantic childhood which they lead so long, _yet so shortly,_ ago.

 

At Hogwarts, Snape was a lovely young boy, despite his occasional rude behaviour -- it _was_ rare and, as with all children, it had not simply originated from nowhere.  From whence it came was not too clear to too many of the men, women, and peers he had encountered by then, but a few had been told, or already knew.  One of them was a peer student, of a different house, at Hogwarts, Lily. _Oh_ , he thought, _if I could only gift you a dozen lilies a day. But they would probably look as if they were weeds, by your magnificent self._ It could have been great.

 

* * *

 

On December thirty-first, of nineteen-forty, Tom awoke with a sleepy groan. His brain had forced him to rise out of bed, for some unknown purpose. He sat silently in his bed, half-dressed, before he noted, eventually, a few simply wrapped gifts, most probably left to him by some faithful ‘friend’ or the other. He didn’t particularly want them either.

 

He eventually finished putting his robes on and left his room, for a bit of a late breakfast. Though the very air and mood of the entire school had somehow come to be twice as merry as it had been yesterday, Tom had never felt worse. There were statues which sang wizarding Christmas carols anytime you passed them by and he was pretty sure that ornaments appeared and disappeared on the suits of armour which hovered around the halls.

 

He had not taken his time with the meal and had entirely ignored the parcel which the owl had dropped next to his plate; instead, he left. The bird would probably return the package to the sender.

 

He walked the halls, hissing in that secret, sacred Parseltongue of his at times he thought he was alone. He even attempted opening the Chamber of Secrets in several of the empty, lifeless classrooms but yielded no results. He’d have to go bigger.

 

By the time he had returned to his room, it had been nearly four o’clock, and the day had been far too long already. He recalled his mother or, at least, his imagined version of her, and he felt longing and pain once more - the type of feelings which, he now had to admit, Harry’s absence had managed to invoke. He passed the following hours reading, writing and crying himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The room had smelled of old books and that specific smell that junkies and crazy people would leave wherever they go. It had also been generously kept in semi-darkness, the curtains thick and pulled nearly shut, allowing a seldom ray of sun to enter and shine upon the dusty air.

 

“The-the-the-the snow,” spoke a shaky voice, its owner staring out the window in a delight. Strange, rodent-like teeth and jaw, messy hair and curled up hands; this was Peter Pettigrew. His hands were bound to the sides of his medical bed with some sorts of charms and spells.  


“It _is_ beautiful, Peter. Now, tell me, Peter, are my plans progressing as they should?”

 

“Plans-plans-plans-plans, good-good-well-done-good.”

 

“Excellent,” the figure smiled. “Don’t you enjoy our conversations, Peter?”

 

“Enjoy-enjoy-enjoy-enjoy,” Peter smiled at the approximate direction of his conversational partner.

 

“This must be a day of great pain for Tom. It will certainly aid our goals, and the diary shall give us insight into how our King came to be. He so rarely speaks of himself, Peter. Or, well, he will _speak_ rarely of himself. Time is such a funny thing, my dear student.”

 

“Time-time-time… for King.”

 

The other barked a laugh. “Merry Christmas, Peter.”  


“M-M-Merry _Ch_ _-Chris_ \-- D-Du-Dumbledore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When one of my beta-readers came to the last sentence they've apparently found it so important that they simply commented "... fuck." Thanks, Vitya.
> 
> Please leave a kudos, a comment and bookmark if you liked it, so that you can hear about the next update. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Tumblr: apollopotter.tumblr.com - personal || drabbleshy.tumblr.com - writing

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I know it's pretty short but I hope you've enjoyed it. If you wish to see more, I hope you leave a kudos, as well as a comment - even if it's just consisted of two words. Thank you again and expect more!


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